


rhythms of unseen drums

by lissomelle



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Character Study, Childhood Memories, F/M, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Past Character Death, Post-Black Panther (2018), Pre-Black Panther (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lissomelle/pseuds/lissomelle
Summary: King or country, which do you serve?Nakia passed every test to join the Dora Milaje but one.





	rhythms of unseen drums

**Author's Note:**

> No warnings needed for character deaths if you've seen the movie, and you can hover for translations of words.

 

**_rhythms of unseen drums_ **

  

 

 

**i.**

 

When the world first spoke to Nakia, it chose to murmur.

She discovered early her aptitude for language, her mouth deftly forming words to fit their native shapes. Her teachers encouraged it, offered tomes and music from every country, which she drank up in greedy gulps until she could quote lines by Murakami and sing bars of Edith Piaf with equal ease.

The idea to leave home stayed buried, setting down spindly roots but never peeking above the soil. She thought and then quashed the idea of becoming a translator in the capital city one day; Wakanda’s borders were not hers to open.

So she waited, and learned.

Her language with T’Challa is the one she can never quite master, the syntax and rules shifting as soon as she thinks she knows them. It is a labyrinth of their own making, each turn a means of avoiding the direct route to what they truly want to say.

( _Stay,_ T’Challa says.

A king need only command. Yet T’Challa asks.)

 

 

 

_King or country, which do you serve?_

Nakia passed every test to join the Dora Milaje but one.

 

 

 

 

 

**ii.**

 

Knife in hand, T’Challa wavered. The warthog in front of him had already been felled by his spear, its blood leaking dark and viscous into the dusty earth on which it lay.

Throughout the hunt the prince had shown a steadiness beyond his twelve years of age, a surety that made his father swell with pride and which impressed even Nakia, who trained alongside him. They were not given the charge since they were children, so they took it for themselves. Young, arrogant, overly hungry — they heard every epithet and pushed forward anyway. It would all be wasted effort if they could not finish what they started.

Across from the animal, Nakia stood with a ring blade in each hand. Her gaze flitted from it to the prince and back. She carefully avoided looking at the king, who waited at a distance with folded arms, watching.

_T’Challa_ , she began.

_I know_ , he replied, grip tightening on the handle of his own blade. But still he did not move. Long seconds passed, and she felt them as though they were full minutes, each like a finger of water cracking and eroding the foundation of their work as though it were sand. The work of children.

Patience gone, she stepped forward and finished the task herself.

T’Challa dropped his knife and his shoulders bowed, curving in as though he might fall forward. He looked slender and small. Only a boy again.

We are the same age, Nakia thought, not without a flame’s lick of fury. Turning away, she began trudging toward the ship waiting to take the hunting party back to the city.

When she kneeled before King T’Chaka, he nodded and then motioned for her to rise.

_Do not hold much anger in your heart for him,_ umntwana _,_ he said, the gentleness of his tone surprising her.

_We trained too hard for him to falter now, my king_ , she said, unable to restrain the bite in her voice.

T’Chaka smiled, and in it she was surprised again to find not condescension or ire at her retort, but pride laced with something deeper, a vein of love and sadness and perhaps even regret.

_He has no love for killing_ , he replied. _It tells me he may not be the best hunter, yes, but it tells me more of his heart._

 

 

 

( _Here,_ T’Challa said, holding one of her hands to his chest and tucking a Kimoyo bead into the palm of the other.)

 

 

 

_You will leave someday,_ he said once.

Nakia turned to the prince, startled. _What do you mean? This is my home. I will guard it, and you._

They were sprawled on the riverbank, their coltish limbs close enough to touch. She had just begun to wonder what T’Challa would look like as a man; his lanky form was beginning to widen and fill with muscle, but she could still see the boy.

_Do you know_ , he continued, _there are countless stars in the sky, scattered all over the universe — and not a single one is like you_.

She lowered her eyes and said nothing, waiting to see if his thought would turn pensive or simply merit a punch in the arm. Knowing him, it could be either.

When she lifted her gaze again, however, he was watching her the way she’d only ever heard others describe, which she either hadn’t seen or refused to see for herself before. The feeling of it warmed her entire body, almost made her jump when he leaned in and lowered his voice.

_The closest is Venus,_ he continued. _The star that is not a star. It is_ iKhwezi _and_ Madingeni _. It has many stories and meets both the evening and the dawn. It shines the most brightly, but it is no star; it is a world of its own. Like you, Nakia._

She has been called many things, _insolent_ and _bullheaded_ and _restless_ among them, always uttered with a sigh or shake of the head. Once, her mother wondered aloud if she had been possessed by some malignant spirit that needed to be purged, lest she be doomed to wander, unable to settle or be at peace. Never has she been a light held above the others.

Other boys attempted to offer gifts. T’Challa gave her words. They stretched to the night sky and washed over her skin, warm and close and filled with knowing. Understanding. The names for Venus, the light that is not a star, which lovers sought to mark the time of their furtive meetings. The same light whose appearance urged travelers to depart.

Even now, it is T’Challa she cannot gaze at directly for long.

 

 

 

Shuri tapped the tablet in her small hands, studying the diagnostics on the screen with a precocity that made her seem much older than eight. Nakia had agreed to the first check-up, amused, but after the princess had made several adjustments that increased the efficiency and speed of her weapons tenfold, she’d gladly trekked to Shuri’s de facto workshop for periodic tune-ups. It had a kinetic energy that drew her closer as well, an inexhaustible current of motion that spoke to her own restless nature.

The room was originally a parlor meant for entertaining, but after years of uselessly entreating their daughter to keep it clear of metal scraps and wires, the king and queen had refurbished it with tools, work tables, and display cases.

_How is the return velocity of your blades?_ the girl asked lightly.

_Better since you adjusted them. The curves of my throws are much smoother as well,_ Nakia said.

_I could probably make them even faster. Add a few extra features in case your arms are pinned and you cannot throw. Some electricity?_ She looked up and grinned. _Maybe then my brother would leave you alone long enough to let you study for exams, eh?_

Nakia’s face heated and she forgot to be formal in addressing royalty. _Shuri!_

The princess made a disgusted face at a sudden thought, sticking out her tongue. _Or maybe it would be easier to make something to soundproof_ and _cloak you._

Nakia fought the urge to curse and made a mental note to chide T’Challa into finding more discreet places to meet.

_But I do like having a sister,_ Shuri continued. The matter-of-factness in her tone made a combination of fondness and protectiveness swell in Nakia’s chest. Nakia was an only child, and well accustomed to it after almost two decades, but she found she didn’t mind the notion of a little sister either. Not that she had any designs of making their familial bond official.

With the eery knowing that often made Nakia suspect Shuri was clairvoyant, the princess said, _I think you’d be a great queen too. You’re sharp enough to make up for T’Challa going gooey-brained around you._

Suddenly, Okoye’s warning, uttered low during training so it caught only Nakia’s ear, returned. _You are one of our best. Do not allow your heart to betray you. You may end up betraying much more._

And so Nakia reminded her softly, _I’m training to be a soldier, your highness. Hopefully, a Dora. I would guard your brother with my life, but I cannot marry him._

_Will you build me a proper lab once you are queen?_ Shuri asked, as though Nakia had not spoken. _This room is already too small._

Nakia stared and then burst into laughter, giving in. _Of course. It will be one of the first things I do._

_And what else will you do?_ The princess’s round eyes grew even larger. The unwavering faith in her gaze made Nakia force a smile and hope it wasn’t a grimace, unsure of what and how much to say. It was not hers to dream, let alone imagine building into something larger. And somewhere in the back of her mind the secret yearning still whispered, much as she tried to silence it. Restless.

_I will protect Wakanda, your highness. To my very last breath._

 

 

 

There are Kimoyo beads for almost countless functions, even more once Shuri’s skills advanced enough for her to begin developing her own designs. Nakia kept her own almost purely functional, with only one or two tricks for the rare moments when she found herself backed into a corner she could not fight out of.

The one she keeps against the inside of her wrist, she never speaks about when asked. It is the only bead she’s ever traded.

_Tch. What will you do without a way to monitor your own health?_ she imagined her mother saying. _Think, Nakia._

Once in a while, especially on a long, solitary mission outside of the country, she would lay awake at night, her body still finding the rhythms of an unfamiliar time zone. Only then would she turn her palm toward the sky to activate the bead. Watch the constant _thump-thump-thump_ of his pulse. If only to see for herself that it was still there.

 

 

 

It was a dark speck amongst the sand-colored dust of the road. They had strict orders to fly no farther than necessary to scout the mile just outside the Wakandan borders where a disturbance had been reported, orders which T’Challa repeated when he caught Nakia’s expression.

After failing to join the ranks of the Dora Milaje, she decided to become a War Dog, to put the sharpness of her ears and eyes and tongue to use another way. She had not yet told him.

_We need to turn back, Nakia._

Her hands hovered over the dashboard, her will holding the ship in mid-air. And then she pushed them forward to descend.

T’Challa cursed as the speck grew into a woman lying facedown, clothes torn and bloodied. She lay absolutely still as they landed the ship, the only movement visible made by the wind lifting the edge of her skirt and the ends of the bright scarf with which she had bound her hair. Nakia knelt and scanned the body to find what they already knew. When she stood, her vision blurred with tears and she turned away so he would not see.

And then she saw the rest. More women. Some elderly. A few infants. All trailing along the side of the road, left as carrion instead of buried and put to rest.

With a shout, she started for the nearest one. T’Challa moved so quickly she barely even saw him slide in front to block her path. He made no move to physically restrain her, only held his hands up.

_There is nothing we can do for them._

_How can you say that? How can we leave them here?_

_We do not know their ancestors, or how to guide their spirits to bring them peace. Neither do we know what happened. What if this is a trap?_

_I don’t care,_ she spat, trying to brush past him.

He looped one arm around her waist and turned her to face him.

_No —_ she began, struggling to escape his grasp. Light surrounded them. By her next breath, they were back inside the ship. Its clean curves and glittering displays hooked something ugly inside her. Useless. All of it, its power, its multitude of functions, was useless. Wrenching free, she stalked to the other side of the cockpit before letting out another long yell, a strangled noise that rattled inside the small space and tapered into something almost like a wail.

_How could you do nothing?_ she said, voice shaking.

_Nakia,_ he said, a catch in his voice she had never heard before. _It is forbidden under penalty of death. The ship is already transmitting everything we see here to the capital. I would rather you live, and hate me, than for me to be forced to bury you_. _I —_

He crossed over to her and she meant to push him away, but gripped the front of his shirt instead. In all their years of circling, this was their shorthand, touch conveying what they could not say. His hands shook as they held onto her, and she realized it was not so much to keep her in place as to hold himself steady. He touched his forehead to hers, moved closer to press their bodies together. It felt equally like a benediction and a betrayal. At some point she did not know whether the salt water on her cheeks was more hers or his.

He was not her first, but she held him like he could be her last, and her pulse hammered at the thought, at his fear for her and how she bent toward it as much as she strained away from it.

When they returned to the city, they separated without a word. Several days later, he asked for her hand.

She told him she had received her first mission as an operative outside of Wakanda, and left the next morning.

 

 

 

( _You will serve us well,_ he said. She expected him to avert his gaze, to avoid looking at her, but his eyes did not leave her until she left the room. His expression alone pinned her to the spot, raised traitorous words to her lips. All while he watched as though he were memorizing her.)

 

 

 

It was never that her country was not enough. Nakia loves every part of it, from the shiny onyx spires of Birnin Zana to the roar of Warrior Falls. She slides as easily into the bustle of the city market as she does into the stillness atop the plateau overlooking the valley. She was born here; she will die here.

But when the world lay in wait, she could not help heeding the call to discover it for herself.

 

 

 

 

 

**iii.**

 

Death, countries, oceans sit between them, mapping years they have and have not seen together. It is not until she sits beside a snow bank, hands clasped as though they hold the last of his life between them as she prays, that she begins tracing a route back.

_Please_ , she whispers to Bast. _Please._

 

 

 

They give Erik Stephens a proper burial. Without a head priest, the king steps forward to perform the rites.

To put the spirit to rest, T’Challa speaks to it, his voice low and constant as he describes the route of its final journey. No one stops him when he alters the ritual, opting not to take the remains to California and the Pacific. Around Erik’s neck, he drapes the chain from which N’Jobu’s ring hangs.

(They searched Oakland for next of kin and found a row of headstones.

_He is ours to bury,_ T’Challa declared quietly. To the roar of protest that rose, he raised a hand for silence and replied, _He has no one else._

His long stare brooked no further argument. So the palace windows were blackened with ash, every reflective surface covered, the proper night vigil held.

_I don’t know what more to do for him,_ T’Challa confessed to Nakia once they were alone. _What I wish to offer, I cannot give._

She cradled his cheek in her palm. She did not tell him that he was already giving more than anyone would expect. Nor did she voice her doubts that a usurper and murderer deserved any sacred rights. When T’Challa closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, she thought only of how to lessen the weight of his heart.

She told her king: _Give him a path home._ )

A handful of stars were still winking overhead when they departed from the capital, but now the moon sits heavy at one end of the sky as the horizon on the opposite side begins to pale.

Nakia walks beside her king, the princess and Queen Mother on his other side. A handful of Dora Milaje led by Okoye trail behind. The procession sings as they walk, songs of praise for the royal lineage of Wakanda, verses of blessing from Bast.

T’Challa slaughters an ox and speaks the name of their ancestors with whom the spirit will reunite, pausing after his father’s name before adding _N’Jobu, Mariah Stephens._

At her brother’s nod, Shuri presses one of her Kimoyo beads and a matte black shield forms over Erik on the small vessel she’s built for him, the section over his head left transparent so his face is exposed to the cool light of morning.

Placing his hands on top, T’Challa murmurs a final blessing, a wish for his _umzala_ to find peace in the land beyond, before he launches the craft into the water. He sets it adrift on the river at a bend where it is calm enough to mirror the foliage arcing overhead and the sky slowly opening into a new day.

The path of the water wends downward, bringing the vessel through Wakanda on its way to the ocean.

 

 

 

Surveying the charred remains of the gardens, T’Challa says little aside from the occasional structural note to Shuri. Nakia pulls in a deep breath, presses a thumb to the bead at her wrist. Reminds herself that her king lives and breathes and it is enough, even if there is little to nothing left of the Black Panther power for him to pass on. Regret is useless; words as much so.

_How long,_ T’Challa begins, _has it been since a member of the Golden Tribe has climbed the mountain?_

_Generations,_ Okoye says. _Perhaps not even since your forefather was first led to the Heart-Shaped Herb_.

T’Challa nods.

_You think perhaps Bast will lead you to the Herb again?_

_The goddess will continue to guide me._

T’Challa takes Nakia with him for the journey. On their way up, she glances reflexively at the forest canopy above, expecting to see a telltale glimmer, a hint of Okoye tracking them in the king’s ship.

_I told her to stay behind,_ he says.

_I’m sure you did,_ she replies, not without a note of pitying condescension.

He stops short. _I_ am _king._

_And a week ago, you were almost dead._

He opens his mouth but just as quickly he closes it. She smirks out of habit, but a lump also rises in her throat. Swallowing past it, she moves in front, stepping carefully through the underbrush.

_Before we left, I searched the records to see if there was a more precise mention of where your ancestor found the Heart-Shaped Herb,_ she says. _We should move farther west, and cut across the narrowest part of the river._

_Lead the way_ , he says, following closely behind.

Just after night falls, they reach the summit and Nakia immediately scans the surrounding brush. As it has on the entire journey up, the results come back negative, the holographic map of the terrain irritatingly clear of any points of light to indicate a cluster or even one sprout. She moves to continue searching on the other side of the mountain, determined, but he stops her with an outstretched arm. He shakes his head.

_I’m sorry,_ Nakia says. _I thought — I thought perhaps Bast would intervene._

_She already has._ At her frown, he looks out into the night, sweeping his gaze from the glow of the cities in the distance to the silent plains below. _The Herb is gone; I didn’t come to search for it. I brought you here to ask something. I asked you once before, but I did it poorly. I asked more out of fear than of trust._

A breath escapes her, and a new one fills her lungs much more unsteadily.

_I want to use everything we have to build something new. Something better. Will you help me? Will you build it_ with _me?_

He turns to her as she moves toward him, the hard intent in his face telling her that he already knows her answer, and they meet halfway, bodies crashing into each other.

She lifts her mouth to his, and he kisses her softly, then deeply. His full lips travel to the sensitive part of her neck just below the corner of her jaw, pulling back to expose his teeth before he nips and then sucks at her skin, which makes her moan and jerk her hips against his. It returns to her in a bright flash of phantom sensation, the way he once searched and catalogued until he learned exactly how much and where she wants force applied. He still remembers every place. She shivers, and pulls him down on top of her in the grass.

_Yes,_ she whispers. _Yes._

 

 

 

( _King or country._ It was never a choice to make.)

 

 

 

Falling into step, the delegation from Wakanda moves through the halls as one.

T’Challa takes the stage, speaks his piece, and sidesteps the first ignorant question with an introduction instead.

_To head our new branch of international diplomacy,_ he says, _I have brought the best Wakanda has to offer: its queen._

He takes her hand briefly as she steps forward to the podium. The Kimoyo bead at his wrist touches the one at hers. And she inhales, deep. She pauses, allowing the words to slot into place like tumblers in a lock, a moment of silence before she officially opens her statement and her country all at once.

_Esteemed members of the United Nations_ , _the narrative of Wakanda begins with the coldest reaches of space, and the offering of indestructible ore that fell from it to create the heart of our country. It is a heart that beats to this day._

Nakia speaks, and the world listens.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The astrological folklore and burial traditions I used are largely Xhosan, Kenyan, or at least specific to the region of South Africa where Wakanda is theoretically located. There’s no ritual significance to the hunting flashback — it’s just the earliest example (that I made up) of T’Challa and Nakia trying their hands at an “adult” task. I did try to read up on hunting rituals or practices of South Central African tribes to make sure I wasn’t accidentally botching or disrespecting any sacred rites, but it’s entirely possible I still missed something. (If I did, please do let me know and I’ll edit!) 
> 
> So, so many thanks to [songandsilence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songandsilence) for helping me catch confusing parts and forking VERB TENSES. God. Otherwise, all mistakes are mine.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [rhythms of unseen drums [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15279234) by [blackglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackglass/pseuds/blackglass)




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